The Bird and the Worm
by ScaryScarecrows
Summary: Once upon a time, there was a little boy named Jonathan Crane.
1. Comfort

AN: A collection of one-shots taking place during Jonathan's childhood. There are, after all, certain things that should be addressed-Granny, the creation of Scarecrow… The main title comes from The Used's 'The Bird and the Worm', which fits him so well. You know, when he was young and huggable.

* * *

A young Jonathan Crane sits in his room, hungry, scared, and alone. Granny sent him to bed without supper-a surprisingly mild punishment. He blames her broken ankle, and dreads what she'll do when she's recovered. That really is his fault, in a way-in an effort to get away from her, he ran into the cornfield. When she followed, she fell wrongly in a small hole and broke her ankle.

His stomach growls and he clasps his hands over it as if to shut it up. He's very tired and beginning to be ill. What he'd give for a glass of milk!

_Scarecrow?_

Scarecrow is his imaginary friend. He protects him from the nightmares and keeps him company when he's locked in his room or out in that god-forsaken chapel. Usually when Jonathan's not playing with him, he sleeps in a black corner of his head.

Sure enough, there's the familiar feeling of the straw man-for Scarecrow truly is a scarecrow, a twisted, rotting scarecrow-stretching and awakening.

**_Jonny! What's up, kiddo?_**

_Granny's mad at me._

**_That's normal._**There's a low chuckle that would be downright frightening if it came from anyone else. **_What else is new?_**

_Nothing._

He can never hide anything from Scarecrow, no matter how hard he tries. It's a small price to pay for having a friend.

**_Don't tell lies, Jonny. You know I don't like it when you tell lies._**

He bites his lip and clenches his hands tighter over his stomach.

_The kids at school broke my glasses. That's why she's mad._

**_Is that so?_**

If he closes his eyes, he can feel a raspy arm lay itself across his shoulders. Security. Safety. Even if it's only in his head.

_Uh-huh._

**_You know what I'd like to do to those kids at school?_**

_Scarecrow, please don't…_

**_I'd like to wring their little necks like they're real crows! _**He laughs uproariously. **_How would ya like that, Jonny-boy?_**

_That's murder._

**_That's justice. Can I help it if they overlap? _**The rough fingers tousle his hair. **_Go to sleep, kiddo._**

He pulls away from the rough arm and digs out his pyjamas. They're old, and far too big for him, but he doesn't dare complain. All the same, it gives him the creeps to think that they once belonged to Granny's dead brother.

**_Eh. No such thing as ghosts._**

_I think there's such thing as ghosts._

**_Don't be an idiot. Go to sleep._**

He sets his broken glasses on the nightstand and curls up under the blankets, trying to ignore his growling stomach and runny nose.

_Scarecrow?_

**_What?_**

_You promise there's no such thing as ghosts?_

**_Would I lie to you?_**

_Yes._

**_Humph. Yeah, yeah, I promise._**

_Thanks, Scarecrow._

**_Go to sleep, kiddo._**

He pulls the blankets over his head and closes his eyes. He's asleep when Granny comes to unlock the door.

THE END


	2. Chapel

AN: _The first person to say anything that could be construed as 'poor baby' will be killed in the slowest way possible._

SwordStitcher-_HEADS. WILL. ROLL. __**Aww, you were cute! I forgot how pathetic you were. **__Thanks, Scarecrow. __**Ah, the good old days, when you actually liked me... **__Don't start that again. __**WHERE DID I GO WRONG?**__ Scarecrow... __**WHY DON'T YOU LOVE ME?**_

* * *

"Put your suit on, Jonathan. Now."

Why? Where are they going?

"Granny?"

"Now!"

He goes upstairs and fetches his suit out of the closet, feeling very confused. Why does he have to put his Sunday suit on at this hour? It's already seven o' clock at night!

It feels strange to him-a little bit stiff. All the same, he puts it on and goes back down, wondering what's going on.

"Come along, child."

Where are they going?

He doesn't dare to ask her any questions, but he's beginning to be frightened.

She drags him outside, past the old car that's on its last legs, past the cornfield, towards a crumbling old building that he's often seen but never been in.

"That was our old chapel when I was a girl, child." she says, her hand like a vice around his wrist. "Mother insisted on a chapel, but Dad would have his birds."

What did that have to do with anything?

"You should have seen it in its glory, child!" she continues, an expression of bliss on her face. "One day, perhaps, I'll find our old album and show you."

Okay…?

"Go in, Jonathan."

In there? But it's dark and the roof has fallen in. He doesn't want to go in there.

He tries to hide behind her skirts and she shoves him inside instead.

Before he can get his bearings, the door closes and he hears the bolt shoot into place.

"Granny?"

"This will get the Devil out of you, child."

Devil? All he'd been doing was reading, honest…

"Granny, please…"

She begins to sing, her cracked voice growing fainter as she walks away. What's going on? Surely she's not going to leave him here!

"Granny!" He pounds on the door and gets splinters. "Granny, please! I'll be good, I promise!"

There's a noise up above and he looks up. There's a crow perched on the edge of the roof. He's never liked crows. They're big and they puff up when they're mad.

He sits down by the door and tries to make himself unobtrusive. This is bad enough without making the crow mad.

Another comes, and another. They're all just staring at him. When's Granny coming back?

One flutters down to the ground in front of him and pecks his ankle. He swats at it.

Then they all come down and everything is a blur of cawing and black feathers and panicked screams.

By the time Granny lets him out, he's shivering and there's a gash on his forehead and blood on his torn clothes. She cleans him up and makes him leave his suit downstairs for repair. She says nothing about the crows.

Maybe Granny really is a witch.

THE END


	3. Good

AN: Takes place directly after _Chapel_.

SwordStitcher-_As if I need the reminder. **Hey, you got me out of it, so it wasn't that bad. **Sometimes I have to wonder about that. **I could have left you there to suffer alone.** I made you up! **I gifted you with my presence. **YOU WERE IMAGINARY! **That got boring.**_

* * *

Looking at him, with a claw mark streaking across his throat and his clothes sticky with blood, she wonders if she's gone too far. Maybe there are other ways to go about this.

But are there? The Devil is strong, he will not leave simply on an old woman's say-so. And given the boy's…precarious position, _someone_ has to look after him.

"Granny."

He flings his arms around her waist, sobbing into her skirt. She rubs his head and hopes they won't have to do this again.

"Come along, child." she says softly. "There's no need for tears."

To his credit, he pulls himself together by the time they go back to the house. She doesn't tuck him in-he's far too old for such nonsense-but she does peek in later, after he's asleep. He looks younger than seven and she wonders again if this was too much.

No matter. It was for his own good. If she didn't love him, she wouldn't bother.

Too old or not, she goes in and fusses with his blanket, tucking it in a little further and smoothing it down. There. Much better.

"Good night, child." she whispers. She leaves the room, leaving the door open a crack-he's scared of the dark, always has been-and walks on down the hall.

It really was for his own good.

THE END


	4. Photograph

AN: There really is a photograph of Jonathan and Granny in her bedroom. So apparently love makes you crazy and evil? The world may never know.

SwordStitcher-_I don't believe that she ever felt proper guilt. She wanted something to need her, something to redeem. She got it. __**She failed miserably.**__ This is true. __**I'm hungry. **__Seriously? __**I want pizza. **__I hate pizza. __**You don't have to eat it. Move, I want pepperoni.**_

APieceOfThePuzzle-_She didn't have the cane yet. Luckily for me. **Luckily for her! I would've hit her face with it over and over and OVER AND OVER! UNTIL SHE DIDN'T HAVE TEETH! **Thank you for that...lovely image. **You're welcome. **As for the time travel...there is no such thing._

* * *

He has only been in Granny's room twice. Once when she was out and he was curious, and once after she broke her ankle and wanted him to fetch something.

What struck him was the photograph on her dresser. He remembers the day it was taken-Easter Sunday, when he was eight years old. He didn't know she'd kept it, and he didn't think she would have stuck it on her dresser.

She had her hand on his shoulder for this shot, probably to make sure he didn't do anything besides stand there and stare at the camera. He remembers being frightened at the close proximity and it shows-she's smiling, while he's wide-eyed and half-grimacing.

He really has no idea why she'd had the picture taken in the first place, let alone put it in her bedroom.

Maybe it's some sort of Voodoo doll? He doesn't know how that would work, but…

When he goes up there after her death, seven years later, he doesn't change a thing apart from turning the picture facedown.

THE END


	5. Story Hour

AN: _I don't know why she bothered telling me this. Maybe she was trying to induce nightmares? __**It worked.**__ It didn't help that the upstairs...never mind. She did it. I know she did it. Maybe that's what made her what she...was. Or maybe she was insane to begin with. **You had to get it somewhere. **True._

SwordStitcher-_I can. **He's weird. **I only remained there for another two months after her death, and Mrs. Richardson was kind enough to have me over often. I would have removed her picture from the hallway, but it was stuck and I didn't want it falling on my head._

APieceOfThePuzzle-_Time travel...bah, humbug. There is no such thing. There never will be any such thing. **Let people have their dreams! LET ME HOPE! **Not you, too... **You always wanted to see dinosaurs. **Every eight year-old wants to see dinosaurs. I grew out of that. **Humph.**_

* * *

He's been conditioned to panic whenever Granny calls him. She only ever wants to see him if she's upset or if she wants him to do something. It's a fifty-fifty split, really.

He goes downstairs anyway, hoping she wants him to weed or something, and finds her sitting in the parlor with a wide, heavy-looking book on her lap and a glass of iced tea on the table next to her.

"Sit down, child."

Next to her? Within grabbing range of those arthritis-twisted talons?

He sits as far away from her as he dares, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. What does she want? She didn't find the book, did she? Surely she didn't…he hid it well this time, far under the bed.

She opens the book-surprisingly dust free-and he spots a page with photographs stuck to it. There's the chapel, before the roof fell in-it looked creepy even then-and the house itself, when it was newly built.

She flips through, looking for something in particular, and suddenly stops.

"This," she says, tapping on a picture with a gnarled finger, "was my older brother. You are named for him."

Great.

He looks, just to be on the safe side. He looks nothing like this brother. For starters, the child is sitting in one of those old wicker wheelchairs.

"He died when he was eight." she says, stroking the picture. "A terrible tragedy. Mother and Father were absolutely devastated."

Where is this going?

"I'm…sorry?"

She doesn't seem to hear him.

"One afternoon during the storm season, there was an accident. Somehow or another, he fell out of his chair and down the stairs. Nobody could figure out how it happened." She sighs and takes a sip of her tea. "We all heard this terrible sound,"-she imitates it on the wooden table and he shudders-"and a shriek, but by the time we got there, Jonny was lying in a twisted mess at the foot of the staircase."

Why is she telling him this?

"We always supposed he snagged that chair on the rug, but…we were never quite sure." She closes the book. "I always wondered if there was something more sinister at play…he was a rather entitled little boy. Made my parents' life very difficult indeed, and always expected us girls to entertain him. I hated him."

He swallows hard and silently agrees that there was something more sinister at play there. He can see it now, actually-Granny, perhaps in pigtails and a pink dress, shoving her hated sibling out of the chair that rainy afternoon, watching him tumble down, down…

She wouldn't do that to _him_, would she?

"That's enough story time." she says suddenly. "I need you to bring me some potatoes from the cellar, and then go and make sure the windows are closed. There's a storm coming."

Call him paranoid, but he'll be making sure there's no one behind him before he comes back downstairs.

THE END


	6. Guilt

AN: _I question the reality of this. Although she might have been panicking about what the school would do...I doubt they'd do anything, but stranger things have happened._

Scary made a Wattpad account! I like it. Only problem is that it's flooded with One (1? Wun? I DON'T KNOW!) Direction stories. Creepy...anyways, if anybody has one and wants to find me over there, it's the same username-ScaryScarecrows. Just beware the band fics...*Twilight Zone theme plays*

APieceOfThePuzzle-_Nothing whatsoever. **It's from some Christmas story. Christmas Ghosts or something. **A Christmas Carol, Scarecrow. Scrooge says it. Constantly. What are they teaching you children these days...? **You're mean to the reviewers, Jon. **So are you. **Fun, isn't it?**_

* * *

He isn't moving. He's breathing-barely-but he isn't moving.

She isn't sure which is worse-that she didn't notice or that he didn't tell her. Tendrils of guilt curl around her stomach. How could she have been so blind? He didn't catch pneumonia overnight!

Why didn't he tell her he was sick? The first she heard of it was when the school called-no more observant than she was, apparently-and asked her to pick him up. She hadn't been pleased-had he gotten in a fight yet again? They couldn't afford new glasses!-but she'd come all the same.

And he had been very, very sick.

He coughs, one arm curling around the raggedy stuffed rabbit. Why didn't he say something? They could have avoided all of this if he'd just _said something_, for _once in his life_…

Idiot child.

He coughs again and whimpers something that sounds like, "Granny, m'sorry."

Her heart catches and the guilt tightens its grip. Maybe she's too hard on the boy…but spare the rod, spoil the child.

That thought does nothing to quell the guilt and she reaches over to pet his head. His skin is hot and his hair is sticking to his face. She brushes it aside.

"It's all right, child."

He doesn't make any more noise and she picks up the big book of fairy tales and nursery rhymes that her grandmother had always read from. It's starting to crumble now, the once-red binding more of a dark brown, but the pages inside are still in fine shape.

"Sing a song of sixpence, a pocketful of rye…"

THE END


	7. Imaginary Friend

SwordStitcher-_He once thought I was some sort of hormone-crazed fangirl. Fought me tooth and nail when I tried to strip him.__ I don't remember that. You were hallucinating. Why were you forcibly removing my clothing? Ice bath. Oh. Um...that's...that's nice. She probably did sit up with me, grudgingly though it may have been. The doctor told her I could have died. I was very good about not dumping my broccoli down the sink after that._

* * *

It doesn't take him long to learn to curl up in a very tight ball and _not make a sound_ when she shoves him in here. Usually they come anyway, but at least he can say he didn't encourage them.

They've left for the time being, left him here bleeding in the dust and straw, but they'll come back. They always do.

He is completely and utterly alone.

He takes a shuddery breath and uncurls as much as he dares. The crows do not come back. Good.

He wishes he had a scarecrow in here. It works in the fields, why wouldn't it work in here?

The scarecrow would be tall, he thinks, and made mostly of burlap and straw, like the one outside. Maybe it could move, scare the crows away. Maybe it could even break their necks, like Granny has him do when they hit the windows and can't fly.

He rubs a scar on his thumb from one of them. It still makes him sick, that little _snick_ of breaking bone.

But never mind. Scarecrows don't care about that sort of thing. They can't, or they're not good scarecrows.

He wonders what it would sound like. Probably gravely, being made of straw and everything.

**_Heya, kid._**

Yes. Just like that.

_Hi, Straw Man._

**_Want some company?_**

_Yes, please._

Even though he's imagining it, it's nice to have a friend.

THE END


	8. Locker

SwordStitcher-_Go ahead. Laugh. We'll see how much you're laughing when they come after you asking you to 'experiment' on them and trying to remove your clothing. Where are their mothers? __Right there with them.__ Where are their fathers, then? Hiding. Where are you? Laughing at your panic. Thanks, Kitty. Thanks so much._

Emma-**_And thus began a long tradition of running commentary, usually the...heh, heh...observant kind...and of Jonny bitching about me distracting him. It isn't my fault. Unlike him, I'm not blind. And it's fun to watch him squirm._**

APieceOfThePuzzle-_Humph. I tell him that all the time. He doesn't listen. __**Nope! You don't listen to me, either, so it's fair. **__Not really.__** It is. Besides, you'd die without me. Remember your firs... **__SHUT UP. SHUT UP RIGHT NOW. __**Yup. You do.**_

Just-Me-and-My-Brain-**_I taught him everything. _**_You taught me nothing except how to chant 'I don't hear that' without being noticed. __**I taught you how to take a bra off without looking. **__No you didn't. Remember? You got fired because you were a lousy teacher._

* * *

Lockers, he thinks, should come with padding. They just should. After all, he isn't the only one that gets shoved in. He's the one they torment the most, but sometimes they can't catch him and they have to make do with someone else.

But not this time.

He's shut in, stiff and rather cold, wondering when someone will let him out. There's a textbook digging into his spine.

Ho-hum.

Wait. Someone's out there.

"Hey!" He tries pounding on the door. "Is someone there?"

Footsteps run away and he lets his head fall against the back wall. Damn. Hopefully someone will let him out soon…

Voices. Voices and a creaking sound and blinding light.

"Mr. Crane. Again." Oh, great, it's the janitor. The janitor hates him for constantly getting shoved in here. "How many times must I tell you not to play in the lockers!"

Play? He hasn't _played_ since he was six years old. _If_. Cretin.

"I didn't." he grumbles. He's taller than the janitor now, not nearly as afraid of him as he is of someone of his classmates. "You know I didn't."

"Go to the office."

"What…"

"Go!"

At least he's out of the locker.

THE END


	9. Broken

AN: _I was in trouble, when she recovered. It didn't take her long to figure out a few uses for that cane of hers. Shame she didn't break her neck in the fall, really._

SwordStitcher-_Funny, I still have that problem. __Sometimes you work too much and I have to get your attention.__ By stealing my clothing? __Hey, it gets your attention.__ Feeling for pants and coming up blank will do that. __Yeah, well..._

Just-Me-and-My-Brain-_Granny was...not pleased. Scary, by the way, wishes her day was going better. I think she's getting a little claustrophobic...I'm sure she'd return the sentiment if she was able. And if she'd stop screaming for five minutes._

APieceOfThePuzzle-_I was around fifteen. Much to my dismay, these go up to when I was seventeen. God knows why. Nobody cares. Or they shouldn't, if they value their sanity. __**I don't think they do.**__ Their loss, then, isn't it? __**Yes.**_

* * *

"Jonathan!"

No! Not tonight, not again!

"Jonathan Crane, get back here!"

He doesn't know how he did it, or what he's going to do now, but he managed to wrench his arm free and make a run for it. He has the advantage of not wearing a long, heavy skirt and he'll take it.

There! The cornfield. Maybe he can hide in there and she'll forget about him. In the morning he can decide what to do.

If he can get away from her, that is.

"Jonathan!"

He dashes into the stalks, shoving them blindly out of his path. He has to get away from her, he can't go in there again…

For once he's grateful that she makes him take his glasses off before going in-they'd be scratched to pieces by now. He knows his way around in here well enough by now-he should, given all the times he's had to weed it.

He can't hear her voice any more. Did she give up? Did she-does he dare to hope?-have a heart attack?

Gasping softly, wishing he wasn't allergic to everything that grows in Georgia, he backs further into the field. Then his back hits something that feels like a person.

_NONONONONONONONONO…_

It's only the scarecrow. He takes a deep breath and pats its rotting flannel before turning away again. Where is she?

There's a sudden shriek and he jumps, turning wildly in hopes of pinpointing the sound. That was Granny. She didn't sound far, but…

He picks his way in the direction he thinks the sound came from. What w_as_ that, what happened? Maybe she really did die. That's silly, she'll never die. The Devil himself will give her back.

No. She hasn't died, but he'll wish he had.

She's lying at his feet, her ankle twisted very wrongly indeed. She must have tripped in one of the holes out here…

"Child," she rasps, her eyes blazing, "go to Mrs. Nightingale's and call for help."

There is nothing he can do but obey.

God, he's going to be in so much trouble.

THE END


	10. Sun

SwordStitcher-_I was rather convinced that she would drag herself upstairs and kill me in my sleep. __You were an adorable child.__ I WAS NOT. I have never been adorable. I never will be adorable. I AM THE MASTER OF FEAR! __Until I steal your clothes.__Is that my shirt? __Now it's mine._

Just-Me-and-My-Brain-_I didn't need the reminder. God, she was furious...I was convinced she'd lock me in my room to starve. **She tried.** This is true. **You should've left her there. **And had her crawl upstairs with the aid of that rusty scythe? She would have. You know she would. **Thumpity-thud-thud...Jonaathaan...** DON'T._

* * *

He lies in the sun, stretched out and tossed aside like an old scarecrow. The bruises are fading, but there'll be new ones. There always are.

He's drifting now, lulled to sleep by the hot Georgia sun. Above him, Granny's rotting scarecrow stands as a silent guardian. He hates it-it always seems to be watching him-but he keeps coming back here because Granny never looks here and neither do his classmates.

He dreams. He dreams off far-off cities with their bright lights and grand libraries, of magic carpets and of freedom, freedom from the old hag up at the house and of freedom from the teenage devils.

And maybe, just maybe, of freedom from the 'pious' old women that shoot him dirty looks and accidentally knock him against the table with their oversized handbags.

Then his dreams become nonsensical as he falls further into sleep. A flying ninja, a clown…must be too much sun.

He makes no move to get up and above him, the scarecrow smiles.

THE END


	11. Blood

AN: "Razor", a one-shot included in _Thirty-One Days of Scarecrow_, could easily fit into this collection. Seek it out if you like, but be wary of unpleasant themes.

SwordStitcher-_I had my fair share of sunburns. I also had a hat, which worked wonders. But mostly I got sunburns, although those were better than a black eye. Which I also had my fair share of._

Just-Me-and-My-Brain-_Foreshadowing...humph. It was too much sun, that was all. Or maybe a self-fulfilled prophecy. Somehow._

* * *

Not for the first time, it crosses his mind that he shouldn't be so good at this.

He wrings the washcloth out, watching the warm, bloody water trickle down the rusty drain. She didn't leave him there for long tonight-maybe because it started to rain? That theory doesn't make a whole lot of sense, but it's as good as any.

He twists the knob and hears the old pipes gurgle before they spit out more water. It's too hot to feel nice but he doesn't care. He just wants to get cleaned up and go to bed.

Okay…almost done, but there's a nasty scratch on his ribcage that needs attention. It was already scabbed over-those school walls were sharp-and now it had been reopened.

Sometimes he wonders if the world would better off without him.

He presses the hot washcloth against the cut and winces. This…really…hurts.

_Okay. Just get it over with._

It's bleeding again, the red seeping into the white washcloth. Well, it's not really white anymore, but…

Okay. Okay. He's done.

He wrings the washcloth out again and slumps over the sink, watching the bloody water trickle down the drain.

When the water is gone, he looks in the streaky mirror. His sickly reflection looks back at him, red cuts standing out in sharp relief.

Maybe the world really would be better off without him.

THE END


	12. The Third Floor

AN: _Obviously, there are no such things as ghosts. If there were-which there are not-that house would be a prime candidate. To hear Granny tell it, the family was cursed ever since Great-great-great-grandfather Julian came back from Chickamauga with his arm bitten off. Something about a hairy boogeyman. Nonsense, the lot of it._

SwordStitcher-_That's your problem, not mine. I didn't ask for your sympathy. I don't want it. Direct it towards the Riddler. He likes the attention._

* * *

He shouldn't be up here. Granny will kill him if she catches him up in this part of the house, and so late at night, but…curiosity killed the cat.

He has never been on the third floor. He's not allowed. He doesn't know why, but he's dying to find out. Just once, and he'll never come up here again. Honest.

He lights his candle-no batteries for the flashlight-and steps into the hallway.

It's dark up here and very dusty. The little window on the far side of the hallway is cracked and dingy. That _might_ be a mouse skeleton in that old trap.

He opens the nearest door and swallows hard. It's a nursery. Or it was, once upon a time. Now it's covered in dust. He steps inside.

The bed is unmade, with a child-sized body impression still on it. Next to it sits a very large teddy bear holding a little lamb. There's a book of fairy tales on the nightstand, along with a cobweb-covered candlestick, complete with taper.

He turns around and nearly drops his own candle. Sitting in the corner is a small, old-fashioned wheelchair, also covered in dust and webs. Something about it gives him the creeps.

He backs out of the room and goes downstairs. He's confused and frightened and he has no intention of going up there again.

That must have been Granny's brother's room, the one who died as a child. There is only one picture of him in the house, and he was sitting in that little wheelchair at the time.

He wonders if Granny might be…normal…if things had been different.

* * *

He's lying in bed, listening to the rain hammer on the roof, when there's a low squeaking sound. Mice? No, too loud. Weathervane? It's never made noise before. Granny? It's after midnight, the old bat should be asleep by now, cozy-comfy under that feather duvet.

So what the hell is making that noise?

It sounds like it's coming from upstairs and a nasty thought hits him-the wheelchair. That old, dusty wheelchair that hasn't moved in fifty years.

_That's ridiculous._

Ridiculous or not, the image of the ghostly wheelchair rolling down the hall is firmly embedded in his head. Oh, well. Maybe it is the wheelchair. So what? It's up there and he's down here and it can't get him. So there.

The squeaking-it is not the wheelchair, that simply isn't possible-continues. Sometimes it gets louder, sometimes it grows fainter.

Like it's rolling up and down the hall.

No. There are no such things as ghosts. The wheelchair is still there in that dusty little room, right where it was before. It always will be there, more than likely.

So why can't he ignore the noise and go to sleep?

There's a crash of lightning and he pulls the blankets over his head. Maybe if he can't see anything, it will all stop.

Maybe.

Hopefully.

_Squeak. Squeak. Squeak._

Why did he have to go up there? Why couldn't he have stayed in bed, where he belonged?

He was startled up by another noise-a thudding, clumping noise as if someone was falling down the stairs. Oh, god, it knew where he was…

The noise stopped. Now the only sounds were his panicked breathing and the rain pit-pattering on the roof.

He got out of bed and poked his head out, half-expecting to see Granny. Or something else…

There was nothing there. Of course there was nothing there. Something had fallen downstairs or something. It was nothing.

All the same, he went back to bed and did not come out from under the covers until long after sunrise.

THE END


	13. Light

SwordStitcher-_Ah, the wheelchair. I remember an Arkham guard who was thoroughly traumatized by a wheelchair. Very funny. And my schedule is, regrettably full. A little birdy said something about 'creepy Crane'...care to elaborate?_

Just-Me-and-My-Brain-_It was indeed. You know, I found that wheelchair at the foot of the stairs the morning after. I always suspected Granny...the world may never know. Perhaps a gust of wind blew it out of the room, down the hall, and down the stairs._

* * *

Granny sighed, straightened up, and went to go upstairs to bed. It was already ten. She must be getting old, she mused, if ten was late. Or maybe it was chasing after a toddler. She was too old to be raising a toddler.

She was just about to get the light when she spotted said toddler curled up behind the couch. She'd put him in bed hours ago, what…oh.

Jonathan was afraid of the dark. He wasn't afraid of much else, but somehow or another he'd convinced himself that there was a boogeyman in the closet. Oh, the minds of children.

She should have woken him up and made him put himself to bed-it was high time he grew out of this-but she didn't. She just picked him up, carried him upstairs, and tucked him in with the old rabbit she'd given him when he was a baby.

She didn't shut the door all the way, and despite the knowledge that the electric bill didn't need any help, she left the hall light on.

THE END


	14. Fright, Pt 1

SwordStitcher-_Wise choice. And I imagine so-humans are naturally afraid of what we cannot see. It's a survival mechanism. The idiots that wandered into the dark were eaten. The scared ones lived._

Jasmine Scarthing-_Granny was born old, I suspect. __**Or that murder made her old.**__ Always a possibility, Scarecrow. We'll never know, will we? __**No.**_

scribblescribblescribble-_She had her moments. When I got older those moments vanished, but now and again...no matter._

Just-Me-and-My-Brain-_Looking back, I probably should be grateful that she didn't accidentally drop me over the banister._

APieceOfThePuzzle-_Few and far between. And, eventually, not at all. __**And that's where I came in.**__ Did it have to be so messy? __**It was poetic justice.**__ I suppose._

* * *

He didn't _intend_ to startle her. Besides, it was her own fault for not paying attention.

She'd been walking down one hall and he'd been walking down the other, and when she turned the corner she bumped into him, shrieked, and nearly tripped over herself trying to back up.

"Can't you make a little more noise, Scarecrow?" she snapped, straightening out her skirt

_Her mother had to bring it, the last one was too short for the dress code._

and brushing past him with her nose in the air. Bitch. It wasn't his fault that she didn't watch where she was going.

All the same, that shriek of panic had been very funny. Served her right.

He moved his messenger bag to the other shoulder-this thing was falling apart, he needed to repair it before the seams gave out-and continued to the library, trying not to laugh.

It was a rather empowering thing, being able to frighten people. Even if it was only for a moment, the tables had been turned.

What, he wondered, what in the world was _Granny_ frightened of…?

THE END


	15. Fright, Pt 2

SwordStitcher-_She didn't even get that. To my knowledge, she's still out here. She was the last time I checked, anyway. As for Batman...once he was babbling about his father. I have to wonder. Perhaps Freud was right, after all._

Just-Me-and-My-Brain-_I'm smarter than you think I am. What, did you think I was going to come flying out of the closet wearing a sheet and try to give her a heart attack? That would have been funny, but suicidal. No, no, it came about in a very different manner._

Jasmine Scarthing-**_I've always been there, watching. Waiting. Rolling my eyes at Jonny's stupidity._**_ Hey! __**It's true. You were always oblivious...remember when Kitty finally had to come downstairs in a towel because you weren't looking?**__ I was busy. __**Whatever.**_

* * *

This time wasn't intentional either, but it was no less satisfying.

He'd been upstairs, cleaning his room-he'd pulled one of the floorboards loose to make a hiding place. Under the bed wasn't suitable anymore. Granny had found the book and he had paid dearly for it.

But not this time. This time it would be hidden away from glaring eyes and grasping claws.

He shoved the board back into place and stood up. No one would be the wiser, especially not Granny. Her eyesight was going a little, he knew, even though she tried not to show it.

Now, which board was it? Third from the window? Third from the window. He would have to remember that. The third board from the window was his hiding place. Still under the bed, just in case she did…notice something.

Dinner would be ready soon-he could smell it. It didn't smell very good, but it would be the only thing he'd had all day.

He went out into the hall, intending to set the table, and tripped over the rug at the head of the stairs.

It was a narrow miss-if he hadn't grabbed onto the railing he might have fallen. As it happened, he'd made a fair amount of noise-noise that brought a scream to his ears.

Granny.

"Jonny!"

Jonny? She never called him…oh. _That_ Jonny, the one she may have pushed down this very staircase as a little girl.

Guilty conscience?

She rushed into the room, cleaver held firmly in her boney hand, and stared at him. Oh, yes, she did have a guilty conscience. It was written all over her face, along with a healthy dose of terror. Did she think that her brother was going to come back for her?

"Jonathan." her voice was hoarse. "What was that racket?"

"I tripped." He swallowed, realizing that he would be lying down there with a broken neck if not for the railing that he was clutching.

"Be careful next time." she snapped. "You about gave this old woman a heart attack."

It was a shame that he hadn't.

"Sorry."

"You should be." The terror was quickly replacing itself with irritation. "Watch where you're going."

He swallowed hard and stood up to straighten out the rug. She leaves the room, shaking her head.

Well, he wouldn't be doing that again on purpose, but that had been a very interesting thing to see. Granny, frightened of something! He'd be honest with himself, he hadn't believed she was frightened of anything.

He made his way downstairs, still clinging to the railing, and went to set the table.

THE END


	16. Alone

APieceOfThePuzzle-_Linoleum? That mansion dates back to the civil war...oh, never mind. I probably would have hidden it under my mattress-too heavy for her to lift, even if she wanted to. __**Too heavy for you to lift, too. **__I'd have managed._

APieceOfThePuzzle-_That staircase is a death trap. No less than three people have died because of it-accidents, all. These days it's worse, with the rot. Nearly fell through it myself when we were in town for the reunion._

* * *

He is completely and utterly alone.

It was decided yesterday, at three fifteen PM. Scarecrow fought and pleaded and threatened, but it had to happen.

He is too old for imaginary friends.

Never mind that Scarecrow was his only friend. Never mind that now he feels worse than ever. He is nine years old, it is past the time for imaginary friends. Way past the time.

He can still hear Scarecrow's voice echoing in his head, laughing at one of his idiot classmates…NO! No. No more. He is too old for imaginary friends.

So why does he miss his so much?

THE END


	17. Rabbit

AN: _This is adorable.__ No it isn't! It's all lies, that's all it is. __You do know I still keep the pieces of my teddy bear, don't you?__ That's different. __Not really.__ Don't believe any of it. __Of course not. But it's still adorable._

Just-Me-and-My-Brain-_Joy. __**I know! **__That was sarcastic, actually. __**LOVE ME. LOVE ME OR DIE.**_

Jasmine Scarthing-**_I couldn't believe it. _**_You were imaginary! __**I was not. **__You were supposed to be._

* * *

The rabbit is old. One of its eyes fell off long before he had it and there's a tear in one floppy ear. Its tail is long worn into a matted ball and it has zig-zag stitches on the back of its head.

Scarecrow calls it Frankenbunny. Jonathan doesn't find that very funny.

He doesn't remember not having it. It's always been there, staring at him with its dull button eye.

Like now.

It's thundering outside, but Scarecrow's sleeping. So here he is, hiding under the covers and squeezing the poor rabbit to death.

It doesn't mind.

It never minds, even though he spilled apple juice on it once.

**BOOM.**

He pulls the blanket over his head. Why won't it stop, why won't it stop?

**BOOM.**

He doesn't sleep, but at least he's not alone.

THE END


	18. Date

AN: Any sympathy you have at the end of this? HOLD ONTO IT. By the end of October, you're going to need it.

This, unfortunately, is canon. It actually was rather painful to write. It's one thing to rain physical torment down on him. It's quite another to…erm…yeah. Let's say this takes place when he's about…sixteen. I'M SORRY.

SwordStitcher-_There never was a rabbit. __**Yes there was. **__NO THERE WASN'T. __**I think it fell apart. **__He's imagining things. __**It might still be under the floorboards... **__THERE WAS NEVER A RABBIT. __**We should go and see.**_

Jasmine Scarthing-_What? Fangirl? __You know how excited I get when Sam stabs Shelob?__ Yes... __That's fangirling.__ And what purpose does it serve. __It's either fangirl, or hug you and babble on until the end of time. You pick.__ Oh._

Just-Me-and-My-Brain-_No more... __You'll live. They can't get in, anyway.__ They'll find a way. __**Who cares? Free screams! **__Somehow I doubt they'll be screams of terror. __They will be. That's what they make bazookas for.__ I don't want to know. __**Gimme!**_

* * *

"Jon!"

He doesn't like the nickname. But he'll put up with it from Sherry.

Wait.

Sherry?

Why is she calling him anything besides Scarecrow? There's _people_ around! She only ever calls him Jon if he's helping her study in the library.

He clams up but stops walking to let her catch up. Then it hits him that maybe there's another Jon that she was calling to.

He drops a book-hey, he has to stop for something-and bends down to pick it up.

"Glad I caught you!"

So she w_as_ calling to him. Why? Not that he minds or anything.

He never minds.

"Sherry." He doesn't trust himself not to stammer or say something stupid. Best to remain short and to the point. It's probably nothing. There's no reason to act like a fool.

"Look, um…I've been thinking about what you said. About…about Bo." Must remain calm. Must remain calm. Nevermind that the mention of that Neanderthal… "And, um…you were right. That he's not good enough for me."

He's glad that she's finally seen some sense.

"That's good."

"Yeah." She shoots a dirty look at a group of sniggering students a little ways away. "So, I was thinking…um…maybe you'd want to meet me somewhere later?"

Meet

What

Somewhere

Huh?

"Jon?" She waves her hand in front of his face. "What do you think?"

"S-sure." Dammit! He knew it. Every single time he tries to talk to her…thankfully, she doesn't seem to notice. "What time do you…"

"Oh, just meet me…meet by Guster's Pond at eight-thirty. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Great."

She gives him a kiss on the cheek and hurries off to join her friends.

* * *

Well? It's eight-thirty…

"Jon!"

He lets out a breath he didn't realise he'd been holding. Call him paranoid, but he'd been beginning to wonder if she'd set him up for something.

"Sherry."

Why had she wanted to meet him out here, anyway? It's the middle of nowhere!

"You okay?"

"Hm? Yes. Fine."

She laughs and he wonders again why she wanted to meet him out here. He's never particularly liked the pond-she wouldn't know that, though. He can't swim and besides, it looks creepy at night. Like a black portal to somewhere else.

"Don't be so nervous. I don't bite." She leans close to him, her breath in her ear. "Unless you want me to."

What is he supposed to say to that?

"Have you ever kissed a girl, Jon?" He shakes his head, too embarrassed to speak and not knowing where she's going with this. "Would you like to kiss me?"

"Yes?" He doesn't intend for it to come out as a question. She giggles and looks up at him through lowered lashes.

"Close your eyes, then, silly."

"Why?"

"Firsts should be special." she whispers.

She'd know, he guesses. He'll just follow her lead on this. This was not on his list of Things-That-Could-Happen-Tonight.

He feels her take his glasses off-what's she doing, what's that for?-and tuck them into his shirt pocket.

"Your glasses are broken."

"I know."

"Why don't you get new ones?"

"We can't afford them right now."

"Oh."

What's she doing? He doesn't like not being able to see anything. Should he be worried?

He's suddenly grabbed around the middle and thrown bodily into the pond behind him with a loud SPLASH!

_What the fuck was this?_

He comes up sputtering and grasping at a floating branch that snapped off during the last big storm. He can't see anything, but he can most certainly hear laughter-Bo's laughter.

"How's the water, Scarecrow?"

_Don't react. Stay calm. Put glasses on, get out, go home._

_Maybe never go back to school EVER AGAIN._

"That's enough, Bo." Sherry says. She's giggling, too. Of course she is. He should have known better.

DAMMIT!

"Did you really think she was serious, Scary?" Bo mocks from the shore. He fumbles for his glasses and finds them where _She_ put them. "Christ! Should've seen the look on your face…"

He doubles over in laughter. He puts his glasses on and eyes the distance between him and the shore. He can probably touch bottom a foot or so away. He should be able to dog-paddle that far.

Right?

"Come on, Bo." Sherry says, forcing herself to put on a straight face.

They leave and he slumps over the log, not motivated to try for the shore right now. If he's lucky, he'll drown here. Then they'd be sorry. They'd all be sorry.

He'll have to try for it. Granny will know he's been out now, and she'll be especially mad if he comes in at midnight or something. Besides, he's cold-the water has seeped into his clothes. He can feel pond scum on his skin.

He makes it to shore, coughing and sputtering, and flops face down in the grass. He should have known better.

He will know better from now on. He can't trust her. He can't trust any of them.

But he won't be at school tomorrow. He'll be staying home if he has to play hooky.

THE END


	19. Cat and Mouse

AN: Based loosely off of a dream. Only the dream was in a temple, with some middle-aged, obese guy with whiskers and glasses in a power chair. I don't know, either, but I think the power chair was magic because there was crap all over the floor and he still kept coming.

SwordStitcher-_He never told me anything until after she was dead. Shame, that-I'd have been happy to stick a live frog in her locker. Or in her water bottle.__ How would you have managed that, may I ask. You'd be surprised. I managed, thank you very much. Bitch. Probably shopped at Whores R Us. _

APieceOfThePuzzle-_Yes. And why? Oh, I can tell you that. He turns all tomato-coloured and starts stammering. KITTY! It's true. Regardless. Oh, stop complaining, it's adorable. Just stop now. Relax. Who are they going to tell? And who will believe them? That's beside the point!_

Just-Me-and-My-Brain-_She regretted it. And they all forgot about it after a finch took out somebody's eye. Can't imagine how that happened. Why do I think you had something to do with that? I don't know how it got into that locker...must've been fighting mad when it came out, to act like that._

* * *

He can tell she's in a bad mood the minute he comes down for dinner. She's sitting at the other end of the table, straight as a ramrod and glaring at him down her nose. Considering she's barely five-foot-three, she has a talent for looking down on him.

"Granny."

She motions for him to sit down. Once he's settled, she bows her head and begins to say grace. Maybe that'll calm her down. It has in the past, anyway.

Dinner is a silent affair-that's probably bad-and he's just about to retreat to his room when she stands up and tells him to _come here_.

It's nothing, it's nothing. He'll be fine. She probably just wants to…to…

"What is this, child?" She reaches down-he's slightly gratified to see that it takes some effort-and lifts an old hardback.

Oh.

Oh, dear.

"Granny…"

She drops it on the table and her plate rattles.

"Where did you get this?"

"Th-the school library."

"What have we discussed about reading filth?"

"Please…it's _literature_…"

She strikes him hard across the face.

"Well, then, my literary young friend, it seems that we'll have to have another discussion."

_NONONONONO._

He turns and bolts for the staircase, half-entertaining the idea of hiding in his room and locking the door.

"Jonathan Crane!"

He freezes at the top of the stairs and turns. She's standing at the base, leaning heavily on her cane. If looks could kill, he'd be dead where he stands.

"Get. Down. Here."

_Now_ he's in for it. But he's got a head start on her…and she's always had trouble with the stairs, especially with that cane of hers.

"Granny, please…"

_"__Now."_

He takes a step back and she begins to climb.

He darts down the darkened hallway. If he can avoid her for long enough she might forget…or he can slip out the front door and hide-there's that empty house across the way, maybe he can hide in there.

He can hear her hobbling up the stairs-she's taken them surprisingly quickly-and he slips into one of the unused bedrooms. It used to be a girl's room-the floral wallpaper and porcelain doll collection are a dead giveaway.

The dolls stare at him as the thud-swish of Granny's steps reach the landing. He dives under the bed, hoping he won't sneeze or suffocate on the dust.

"Jonathan!"

He tries holding his breath, but that doesn't do him any favors and he ends up breathing shallowly through his mouth. Surely she won't look under the bed. It's too much effort to bend down.

Breathe. Breathe. He's okay. She won't look here.

He hears her footsteps enter the room and imagines her standing in the doorway, looking to see if he might be in here. Then he sees her walk over to the closet and fling it open.

After one agonizing minute, she turns and leaves. He lets his breath out and eases out from under the bed once he hears her footsteps fade away.

He sticks his head out into the hallway. There's no sign of her. She must've gone back downstairs. He'll just go to his room and lock the door and go to school very early in the morning.

He makes his way to his bedroom, jumping at small noises. A mouse runs across his path and nearly gives him a heart attack.

Finally. Sanctuary. He opens the door.

"Hello, Jonathan."

She's standing in the middle of the room, hands folded atop her cane. He tries to step back and she crosses the room with terrifying speed.

"What has gotten into you?" She grasps his wrist with her birdy hand. "In all my years, I never…"

And she yanks him out of the room and towards the staircase.

THE END


	20. Prayer of the Refugee

AN: Title from the Rise Against song of the same name. Let's say he's…oh…fifteen, sixteen? Young, but starting to outgrow his pathetic-ness. A side note-those big, skinny spiders? We call them Daddy-Long-Legs here. Ever seen two of them have a battle? I swear to god, they're FAST. It's all very primeval and yet it resembles a bitch-slap-fight. Only scary.

Johanna Crane-_I managed, thank you very much. Amazing, the self-confidence you gain after your first murder. Once you're through being sick, of course. And once you've left town, where they can't find you if they should find the body. Not that it would have mattered-she wasn't exactly beloved by all._

The Puppeteer-_At the time, not really. I was worried about being caught. But now I can look back on the memory with fondness and a rather critical eye-it was rushed. I would take my time if I were to do it again. Ah, the wisdom one gains with age..._

Just-Me-and-My-Brain-_I'm glad to see that you're amused by my misery. Though people do seem to find this whole affair...endearing. Somehow. God knows why-if they think they can appeal by insisting that they 'know my pain' and 'forgive me', they're in for a nasty surprise._

APieceOfThePuzzle-_I honestly can't remember. But for Granny, anything that was not the Bible was filth. I had to do half of my summer reading at the library lest she find out they'd assigned us _The Scarlet Letter_-I'd have caught Hell for that one._

* * *

He doesn't remember when he started wearing baggy clothes and long sleeves in the summertime.

He doesn't remember the last time he expected sympathy from his grandmother.

He doesn't remember the first time he was thrown against a locker, the padlock digging into his back, before being beaten within an inch of his life…and expected to take a science test right after. (He takes pride in having never failed a science test. That C in French is unforgivable, though.)

He doesn't remember when he figured out that God and Jesus and all the rest are just a pack of lies…but he does remember praying to _somebody_ to help him, so it must not have been so very long ago.

But he does remember the first-and only-time a teacher had to physically pull him off of another boy, a boy who, by that point, couldn't speak and was a slight shade of purple.

"Jonathan! Jonathan Crane, for the love of…the principal's office. Now."

He'd gone, not at all sorry. He'd gotten a lecture and detention, and when he'd gotten out he'd been jumped by the friends of the victim. When he got home he had no supper and a visit to the chapel.

He still isn't sorry, even now, his body covered with scratches and bruises. That'll teach the idiot to take his book.

Lying here, in the dark, he remembers the squeaking and sputtering, the struggles for breath. Very much like a fly caught in a spider's web.

A slow grin spreads unbidden over his face-his first real smile in weeks. He wonders what would have happened if he hadn't been pulled off. Would he have continued? He honestly doesn't know.

But he can't definitely say no.

THE END


	21. Fright, Pt 3

AN: _I took quite the risk, catching this. But it was worth it. __You idiot! Did you have a death wish?__ Well… __My god, you're crazy.__ I lived. __But what if you didn't?__ It wouldn't matter to you, would it? __I take it back. You're an absolute moron.__ Thanks, Kitty._

Johanna Crane-_Mm, Johnny Depp.__ They did die. Painfully. I hear poor Arlen's morgue was a little overcrowded-not used to people dying en masse. Nothing like Gotham._

Just-Me-and-My-Brain-_He was so cute when he was younger.__ I was not 'cute'. Yes you were! You were cute and innocent. Thank god that's over. _

* * *

It took longer than he'd like to admit to work up the nerves to go down into the basement with a jar and Granny's old gardening gloves. He's looking for something specific, and his chances of finding it are increased in the basement.

Ugh.

He's nervous. Not scared-it takes a lot to do that anymore-but nervous. So many things could go wrong. He could be bitten. He could be caught. Worse, Granny might catch him down here and lock him in to teach him a lesson. But he's not going to lie down and take this, no more. He's sick of being shoved around and mocked and just…just no.

There. That corner, the one where the light doesn't reach, that's where he can catch one. Flashlight in one hand and the jar in the other, he heads over there, watching his steps for anything _else_ that might be down here-he was bitten by a black widow once and nearly died.*

Uh-huh, there's one-easily missed if you're not looking. He swoops the jar under it, catching it in the glass, and retreats to get a good look.

Yes. There's the marking on its back, a clear violin. He has been successful. Now, as long as it doesn't die between tonight and tomorrow afternoon, he's set.

* * *

He sacrificed the better part of his library time picking the lock, but he did finally get in and shoo the now rather traumatized spider into a nice, dark corner of the locker. His part is done. Now all he has to do is hope that it stays where it belongs and reacts like it should. It would be just his luck to get a freak of nature…

It'll take some time to find out if this worked. But he is patient. He can wait as long he needs to. But eventually this idiot will have learned his lesson.

Oh, yes, he'll have learned it well.

* * *

It's two months before the unfortunate victim comes to school missing a finger. Fiddleback bite, they say. Had to amputate because of the location. Shame, that. You know, it's funny, but the bite must have occurred not…what, three days after he shoved Jonathan Crane in a locker? Odd. Almost…almost Karma, one might say.

And the _really_ strange thing is that Crane visited him in the hospital. Brought him his homework. Must have said something, though, because he's dead scared of him-won't even look at him. What a wuss, scared of Crazy Crane.

But still…the school is regularly sprayed…and that spider didn't have a web in the locker.

Strange things happen around here.

THE END

*Black widow bites are seldom fatal-though they hurt like a bitch-but Jonathan's immune system is crappy and the bite occurred when he was like…eight. Not a great combination.


	22. Fright, Pt 4

AN: Hey, you have to start somewhere. TIP: those of you with a quiet tread can have fun scaring the living daylights out of your friends by just coming up behind them and standing there-read over their shoulder or something. Trust me. It works. Especially if they're the panicky type. (Was technically supposed to go before the last one, but I forgot to post it. Takes place first.)

Johanna Crane-_Don't they all? __For god's sakes, don't encourage him. He already has no regard for his own safety.__ I have plenty of regard for that. __You have no regard for that whatsoever.__ I appreciate your faith in me, really. __**Jon, you did kind of um...well...that time Batman threw you off the bridge was your own fault.**__ Traitor. __Thought Scarecrow was responsible?__**You blamed me? You dick! It was so him, I was sleeping.**_

Just-Me-and-My-Brain-_To this day, I'm not sure whether to be pleased or dismayed.__ You've done worse. I blame you. Worst I ever did as a kid was sneak out and get drunk. And all the things that go with that. But I didn't kill anybody! So why is that my fault? You did it first. You corrupted my innocent mind. I-! I was going to stop with one murder. Still counts. You keep telling me it was in self-defense. It was, but still. _

* * *

It took some time, but he finally found out what Ellie Cook is afraid of.

Ellie is the one who came up with the nickname 'Ichabod', which has only been replaced by Bo's preferred 'Scarecrow'. He'll deal with Bo another time, perhaps. Ellie can't send him home with a sprained shoulder, but Bo can.

She's frightened of insects-she especially doesn't care for crickets. He doesn't like them all that much either (long story), but she seems to have a full-blown phobia of them. Perfect.

It took some patience (figures, the minute he needs a cricket they all vanish), but he caught one without killing it. A dead one might be suitable, but a live one will jump and it might even land on her face.

He places it in her locker-the idiot never actually _locks_ it-and retreats to his own locker to watch the fun. Straight face? Check. Good view of her locker? Check.

It's time.

He watches her open it and nearly misses the black thing leaping at her face. She stands still for a second before there's a blood-curdling shriek and she starts whipping her head back and forth. A second later, there's another shriek.

"IT'S IN MY HAIR!"

Beautiful. He ought to keep the cricket for a pet. When it dies, he can always slip it into Granny's iced tea.

No, she'll blame him whether it made sense or not.

He closes his locker and slips out. His composure is about to fail and he doesn't want them to notice him.

But, oh this has been a good day. He ought to do this again.

THE END


	23. Library

AN: _It's a shame you killed her. We could have had a nice chat first.__ Chat. __You know, girly things. Painting nails.__ I don't want to know, do I. __How squeamish are you, really?__ Not very… __You don't want to know._

scribblescribblescribble-**_Oh, I like that. Were there screams? Because the silent panickers are boring. _**_You've no heart. Do you have any idea how horrible it is to have...things...in your hair? You can't get them out!__ Oh, no? Jonathan, if you even THINK about it, I will strangle you, so help me god. You'd be guilt-stricken in a week. Might even go Norman Bates._

Sketch1997-_They're not hard to get into, you know, if you're patient. Or if someone leaves the combination lying around, as often happens. You never broke into mine, did you? Just once, when you were sick and we had homework. I remember. That was not fair, I'd been planning on using my absence as an excuse to get an extension. Mrs. Burns would have flunked you. Bitch._

Johanna Crane-_It loses the escalation factor. Writers...no matter. **I don't remember any of this, where was I? **Where you belonged: out of mind. **So ungrateful...who was with you when she locked you in the closet? **Who made you up? **Aw, c'mon, Jonny. You didn't make me up, I graced you with my presence. **Some grace. **Damn right! I'm a fucking angel. **A fallen one, perhaps._

* * *

"Jon?"

He looks up from his book, his heart pounding and his mouth suddenly dry. Sherry Squires is standing across from him, her books in her arms and her lower lip between her teeth.

What does she want?

"Hi." she says. "Can I sit here?"

Why? The library's empty (it's why he's here). There's plenty of other places to sit that won't damage her reputation.

"S-sure."

"Thanks." She drops her books on the table and adjusts her skirt before sitting down. "What are you reading?"

Aannd now she's trying to make conversation. Did she get hit on the head? And is it permanent?

"_Carrie_."

"Any good?"

He doesn't like it. It hits too close to home. But he's loathe to start reading a book and not finish it, and it's short. He'll manage.

"It's all right." He should ask her something. That's how it's done. Isn't it? "What are you doing here?"

Dammit. Wrong question. Too impersonal. And too late now to take it back.

To his surprise, she smiles at him and reaches for her English book.

"I have a test next period and I need to study."

"Oh."

Now what?

He goes back to his book, trying to ignore the fact that she's sitting two feet away from him, by choice, and not trying to make his life miserable.

Maybe he's dreaming.

"Jon?"

He really doesn't like the nickname, but he likes it better than Scarecrow, or Ichabod, or any of the others.

"Yes?"

"Why do you stay in here at lunch all the time?"

Is she so oblivious? She must be.

"Safer." he says shortly. He doesn't feel like talking now. Besides, they might get thrown out if they make too much noise.

She doesn't say anything now. Maybe he should have come up with a better reason.

The bell rings and he marks his place and gets up.

"Jon?" He pauses, looks at her. "Will you be here tomorrow?"

Why would she want to know that?

"Yes."

"Can I sit with you again tomorrow?"

She shouldn't have to ask. Doesn't she know?

"Yes."

THE END


	24. Book

AN: He will put up with insults, physical abuse, and 'kick me' signs. But heaven help you if you touch his book. Nowadays, I'm sure he'll probably just look at the offender and either gas them or…_talk_ to them.

BEWARE THE BOOKWORMS.

Christineoftheopera-**_Anyone wanna take bets for when we get a new shrink? _**

Johanna Crane-_I despised that book._

Just-Me-and-My-Brain-_Until the...incident...at the pond. _

* * *

He's minding his own business, his nose buried in a book on psychology, when a shadow falls across the page.

"Whatcha readin', Ichabod?"

"Nothing you'd enjoy." he says, his voice distracted. He's come to the section on phobias and he's…HEY!

The book is jerked from his hands and someone else laughs. He takes a deep breath and stands up, his hand held out.

"I'd like my book back, please."

"Yeah, bet ya would." Bo Griggs grins at him. "Too bad."

It happens too fast to really register. One minute he's standing there and the next minute the book is in his hand and he's beating Bo around the head with it.

It doesn't take more than a minute for Bo's lackeys to pull him off and pin him down, but Bo now has a bloody nose and a bruise that might have been caused by the hardback's corner.

"C'mon, let's go."

"Huh?"

"I got a date with Sherry." He's lying. Well, not about the date, but he's got two hours.

One of them kicks him in the ribs before moving off down the hill. Jonathan waits a few minutes before pulling himself up, fixing his glasses-he'll have to tape them again-and settling back against the tree to finish his book.

THE END


	25. Taily-Po

AN: Once upon a time, there was a book-on-tape (god, I'm ancient…) called _The Tailypo: a Ghost Story_. Joanna Galdone was the one who read it.

SHE SCARRED MY ENTIRE FOURTH-GRADE CLASS FOR LIFE.

I can't find it on YouTube, more's the pity, but some of you may have heard it. Or seen the book with its creepy illustrations. *shudders* Be afraid. (Those who may have heard it, Joanna Galdone is who I imagine voicing Granny.)

Christineoftheopera-_Should be interesting. Shame we won't be in-after last year's...observation...of Easter, we've taken to being away._

Johanna Crane-We've all probably inflicted bodily harm in the name of our books. And no, I do not.

* * *

Every so often, if her arthritis isn't acting up too badly, Granny will summon him after dinner and tell him a story.

He never wants to hear these stories. Most of them are family history-always the bloodiest, scariest bits-but some of them are just ghost stories. Like the one about the headless soldier that haunts the attic. Or the hairy, green-eyed beast that chewed his Great-great-great grandfather Julian's arm off after the battle at Chickamauga.

He suspects she goes out of her way to frighten him, either for her own amusement or to make sure he behaves. Probably a mixture of the two. It's successful, at any rate-he doesn't go into the attic unless he really has to, and he hasn't explored the third floor at all.

It's a wild, rainy night in July when she calls him in from the kitchen to tell him a new ghost story. He's a little bit excited-she _is_ very good at telling stories-but mostly apprehensive.

"Did I ever tell you about the Taily-Po, Jonathan?"

He shakes his head and puts as many inches between them as he dares.

"No, Granny."

"I've been remiss…no matter. Dim the lights, child, this is not a story for a well-lit room."

He does so and nearly trips over the footstool on the way back. He can just see Granny's silhouette against the storm outside. She's looking thinner than usual since the accident. He's dreading the day she gets rid of that horrid wooden cane-he'll be in for it then.

"Sit down, boy." He realizes that he's still standing and sits down, twisting his hands in his lap. She swats at them to make him stop. "It wasn't so very long ago. Your uncle, Robert Keeney, was always the black sheep of the family. Left Mother and Dad the minute he turned sixteen and struck out on his own." She takes a sip of her iced tea. "Needless to say, he wasn't very successful. Ended up in a one-room log cabin with three hound dogs."

There's a flash of lightning and he thinks that she looks like a mummy.

"One night, something big and black and furry got into his cabin through a crack in the wall. He lunged for his hatchet and lopped its tail off in one clean _chop_." She illustrates with her hand and he shudders. "The creature left, of course, and he cooked that tail up and ate it."

Ugh. He's not sure he would be able to stomach eating a furry tail, especially if it came from a…creature.

"He plugged up the crack in the wall and went off to bed." she continues. "And late that night, the scratching started."

Scratching?

She smiles at him, a snake's smile, and runs her nails along his cheek.

"Scraaatch. Scraaatch. **Scraaatch."**

He can't show her that he's frightened. That tricks works on the bullies, it'll work on her. Basic human psychology-don't react, and they'll get bored and go away.

Right?

She retracts her claws and takes another sip of her tea. Outside, the rain shows no signs of stopping.

"He thought it was a raccoon at first, and called for the dogs. He heard them give chase and got out of bed to fetch his gun. By the time he got onto the porch, the dogs were out of sight, running towards the swamp. With that, he went back to bed, taking his rifle with him."

There's a **boom!** as thunder breaks over the house. He wonders if lightning has struck the chapel, and if it has started a fire.

"A few hours later, Robert was awakened again. This time he could hear a voice crying outside his window." She swallows. "Taily-po! Taily-po! I'm coming to get my Taily-po!"

He shivers and she smiles that snake's smile again before running her nails across his face.

"Scraaatch. Scraaatch. Scraaatch." He really wants to pull away, but he doesn't want to upset her. "He called for the dogs again and heard them come rushing around the corner of the house. This time he caught a glimpse of something big and black and furry racing off towards the swamp. If he hadn't turned away, he would have seen that there were only two dogs."

He doesn't want to hear anymore, thank you very much. He wants to go to bed and hide under the covers until morning.

"Once the howling had died down, Robert went back to bed. But he wasn't there very long before the scratching started again, and the crying." She doesn't do the scratching this time, and he is grateful. "He called for his dogs, and this time…there was only one."

She is lit up by a flash of lightning, her glass raised to her lips. Why can't she be short and round, like grandmothers are supposed to be?

"It was almost dawn when the voice came back. It was echoing down the chimney, crying out for its Taily-po. Robert called for his dogs, but they didn't come. That thing had led the dogs way out into the swamp, and lost them."

He's twisting his hands again, but she doesn't notice. She doesn't notice anything when she gets into the mood-nothing but fear.

"Robert went back to bed. He was just starting to doze off when his blankets were tugged downwards and two pointed ears appeared at the foot of his bed. Then there were two big, round, fiery eyes, staring at him. Before he knew it, that thing was sitting on his bed, the stump where its tail had been dripping onto the quilt. It opened its mouth, and do you know what it said?" He shakes his head, his mouth too dry to speak. "Taily-po, Taily-po, I've come to get my Taily-po!

Well, Robert shook his head and croaked out, 'I haven't got your Taily-po!'

And that thing just blinked up at him and said, 'Yes, you have!'"

She says nothing for the next five minutes and he wonders if she's dozed off. He risks a question.

"What happened?"

"Why, they never saw him again. Torn apart, they say. Him and his cabin. All that stands out there now is the chimney, and a few rusting pots and pans. I'll take you out there sometime, so you can see." She pats his cheek and gives him a nudge. "Now go on up to bed, child. It's late."

She expects him to sleep now?

He doesn't dare to argue. He just murmurs a good night and goes upstairs, her horrid blue eyes burning into his back as she smiles that snake's smile.

THE END


	26. Watched

Christineoftheopera-_I do not celebrate Easter for...religious reasons. Which means that he hates it and has spent several of them targeting churches. But yeah, they are bad. Sickeningly...happy. But with no jelly beans. Forgive me for having no happy childhood memories of Easter. I seem to recall a good one in college. **With the Playboy outfit! **You had to bring that up, didn't you. I might still have it somewhere, actually._

Johanna Crane-_How do you think I feel? I still remember that story. You never told me that. I can't tell it like she did. Couldn't you try? No. It wouldn't be the same. There was something about the, 'is there a moral to this story or is she just trying to scar me for life?' that added so much. You have yet to scar me for life, love. I compensate with half of Gotham. You're good at that, aren't you. Of course._

Just-Me-and-My-Brain-_Fear is a powerful motivator, and young children will believe anything. Boogeyman legends exist to keep them in line: threats of 'eat your supper or Bloody Bones will get you' can be astoundingly effective. You're adorable when you go all Professor on people. Sometimes I thought I should have been a teacher...but then I remembered that I despise idiots._

* * *

He comes to with the feeling that he's being watched. Perhaps he's dreaming? Perhaps not.

He opens his eyes and sees nothing but the blackness of his bedroom. Nothing. Just the remnants of a nightmare, then. He's fine.

There's a low rustling in the doorway and he squeezes his eyes shut again. Slowly, hoping he looks as though he's still asleep, he rolls over and cracks his eyes open again. He can't see very well, but he can see enough to know that there's a tall, thin blur at his door.

Granny.

She does this sometimes, checks on him late at night to make sure he's not _doing anything_. What he could possibly be doing at this hour is a mystery to him, but she _is_ completely insane.

She's never come in, as far as he knows, and she never stays long, but that doesn't make it any less creepy.

The rustling comes in. Why is she coming in? Oh, god, what's she doing? Surely she hasn't found his hiding place…

He feels her looming over him and tries to make his breathing slow and deep. What does she want, why did she come in…

For one long, agonizing minute she stands there, looking at him. Then the rustling turns and leaves, shutting his door on the way out.

What was that about?

He shivers and wraps the blankets around himself a little more. He hates it when she does that. He could stand it, maybe, if she would wake him up, shout at him…anything but just stand there and stare.

His heart is still pounding against his ribs and not for the first time, he wishes one of them-preferably her-would drop dead.

THE END


	27. Scared

AN: **_It was for his own good. Christ, kid was scared of his own shadow. _**_I was five. __**Never too early to learn, right? **__Wrong. __**You know I love you. **__Stop now. __**What? It's not like I wanna get together or anything. **__You're technically not real. You are a figment of my imagination, made slightly more substantial by a traumatic childhood. __**You turn me on when you talk like that. **__I did not want to know that, thanks.__** Ohh, Doctor Craane… **__KNOCK IT OFF._

Christineoftheopera-_Gotham is not a Godly city. Some people cling to the idea, but most of us are too apathetic. We don't have too many door-to-door people, here. Every so often one will come, but they seldom make it out: any Rogue with half a brain will take advantage of the free victim. As for teachers...I only had one like that. The rest didn't care. But that one...she died. Tragic, really: went absolutely insane and ran out in front of a car. Poor, troubled soul._

Johanna Crane-_I would have been happier if she wasn't home. She was nutty. I brought your homework by once and she gave me a lecture about not letting harlots near you. I didn't know that. I'd never been called a harlot before. Bitch, yeah, but not a harlot. Ada was furious, but it was hilarious. You're lucky she didn't kidnap you. I'd have broken her hip! Doctor Who was on and I wasn't missing that. _

Just-Me-and-My-Brain-_Nobody slept in that house, not even after she died. Yeah, I noticed. You were either with me or wandering around like a lost soul. I should've spread the rumour that you died and were looking for revenge. No. It would've been funny. We could've done you up proper, with a gash in your throat or something, and charged a dollar for admission. And you could've appeared and tried to strangle me. Or really strangled them._

* * *

He didn't mean to make her angry, really he didn't. All he'd wanted was a drink of water. He was too scared to go downstairs and get it-he couldn't see very well.

But Granny hadn't seen it that way.

So now here he is, locked in the coat closet because it's pouring out and there's nowhere else that she can put him.

He can't breathe with all the dust and the panic threatening to overwhelm him, but he screamed himself hoarse already and was unsuccessful. So now here he sits, huddled against the musty coats, his face and throat swollen with tears and his heart racing.

Something is in here with him. He can sense it, hear it breathing. Sometimes he sees the darkness move.

_Scarecrow?_

**_Hey, kid. What are you doing up?_**

_I wanted a drink._

**_Bummer._**

_Something's in here._

**_You're imagining things._**

_NO. SOMETHING'S HERE._

**_Fine, fine. Does it have teeth?_**

_SCARECROW!_

**_Sorry._**

Sometimes he thinks that Scarecrow isn't a very nice friend. Sometimes he's scared of him. But he can't say that, or the straw man might take exception.

**_You're being an idiot, Jonny. There ain't nothing in here but you and a bunch of ugly coats._**

_I hear breathing._

**_That'd be you, genius. Breathing through your mouth makes noise._**

_It isn't mine._

**_God, you're a wuss…Jonny, kiddo, shut up and go to sleep. There's nothing here._** A scratchy hand, faint as a ghost's fingers, brushes against his face. **_Just you, knucklehead._**

_But…_

**_Shush. I'm trying to sleep and you're making it difficult._**

_But…_

**_Don't make me put you out._**

He doesn't really believe that Scarecrow can do that-he's only imaginary, after all-but still.

_Sorry._

**_Nighty-night._**

And he is left alone in the blackness, watching it move and feeling worse than ever.

THE END


	28. Drown

AN: So my ex is in town-you know, the type that drunk-texts and always wants to meet up 'as friends' and shit like that? *rolls eyes* So I'll be at home, avoiding running into him and writing. Good news for you, I suppose. All together, now: thank you, Scary's childish ex!

Christineoftheopera-_Oh, this was in Arlen. They never did trace it to me-she was already old at the time. A few people...suspected...but there was no proof._

Just-Me-and-My-Brain-**_You'd better miss me, bitch._**_ I'm not in therapy for you, am I? **I love you, too, cupcake.** But I might just start. **DON'T YOU DARE I'LL KILL YOUR SORRY ASS!**_

Johanna Crane-**_I'm just special. _**_Oh, you're special, all right. **What's that supposed to mean. **What? **You know what. **I really don't. Care to share with the class? ** Humph.**_

* * *

He has time to take a deep breath before he goes under, beating frantically at the water even as it pulls him down into the algae.

He can't swim. Why should he bother? There's no one to swim with and besides, Arlen's ponds and small stream are disgusting. Only an idiot would go swimming in those.

They grabbed him on his way home from school, chattering about giving him swimming lessons 'just in case'. He tried to run, but that didn't work out so well.

So now here he is, the water a cool kiss on the bruises, unable to breathe and slowly beginning not to care. He won't be missed. Maybe he'll just…stop…fighting it.

There's a commotion above his head and he hears muffled screams. He should care, but he's tired…

Something grabs him by the shirt collar and he is dragged through the water, onto the shore. He spits water, gagging at the sickeningly sweet taste, and a warm, wet tongue licks his face.

The dog. The red dog that he feeds when it comes around. It chases the crows sometimes.

"Hello, dog." It wags at him, skinnier than ever, and he tries to pet it. He can't lift his hand yet.

It sits down by his head, tongue lolling out, happy. He takes a deep breath, spits up more water, and tries to pet it again. He manages it this time.

THE END


	29. Fright, Pt 5

AN: _Very loosely _inspired by the Sherry Squires Incident (you know, with the car crash, and the dying?). No idea how. Just is. Was listening to Sixx A.M.'s 'Life is Beautiful' during the writing. May or may not have been inspired by that, too.

Sketch1997-If he was going to have an actual pet, probably. Dogs are noisy. And they drool. (At least mine do, jowly bastards that they are.)

Johanna Crane-_What are you talking about?_

Christineoftheopera-_Suspicions do not proof make, and I try not to draw attention to myself._

* * *

He's never been frightened of ghosts and graveyards. There's no reason to be. He hasn't done anything wrong. Well, _really_ wrong, like dig them up. He's sure that pretty much everyone buried here would have it in for him anyway, given his…circumstances…but he hasn't gone out of his way to upset them.

He's lying in the back of the cemetery, tracing the faded letters on a nearby tombstone, when a car comes up the back road and stops. He stays where he is-first line of defense, don't move. Second line of defense, jump the fence and run like hell.

"I don't wanna be here, Bo."

Ugh. His _favorite_ people. He'll just stay here-it's dark now, they might not see him if he doesn't make them.

"Why? Scared of Old Man Grumby?"

Old Man Grumby is the supposed ghost-he was the caretaker when Arlen was first built, and very serious about his job. He's buried around here-somewhere off to the right, actually, maybe seven graves away.

"No. I just don't wanna be here." She sounds pissy. Serves her right.

"I'll protect ya, Sherry."

"Sure you will. Creep." He can hear the smile in her voice. "Now c'mon, let's go home."

They get back in the car. Now's his only chance to leave without being seen-he's going to be late if he doesn't leave now.

He pulls himself to his feet, brushing the leaves from his raggedy sweater, and moves stiffly towards the gate. He's gotten maybe three steps in when there's a shriek from the car. He turns, not really wanting to know what's going on, just in time to see them scrambling to sit up and put the car in gear.

Weird.

* * *

He doesn't think anything of it until Monday, when the school is on fire with 'did you hear? Sherry and Bo saw Old Man Grumby!'

Ridiculous…wait.

They'd seen him, they must have seen him when he was leaving…and thought…_ohhh_.

He might have to start spending a bit more time in the cemetery.

THE END


	30. Lights Out

AN: Title and loose inspiration from the Breaking Benjamin song of the same name.

Johanna Crane-_Ah. Kitty hasn't bothered with that one. But we've gotten the Star Wars references down! That wasn't even my best one, really...that would be what came of this._

* * *

He hears crickets. Crickets and the slithering of a snake somewhere behind him. It's dark out here, and cold, but it's safe. Granny won't come looking for him.

The pond is dark-could be a gateway somewhere, if he looks at it right. Or a mouth, gaping wide.

Someone's coming-he can hear voices. He scrambles up into the tree and stays still and quiet, waiting.

It's two of the seniors-he doesn't know them personally, but they'll probably make his life hell if they see him. Scratch that-definitely. Charlie Hagan is their quarterback-big, mean, and very stupid. Damn. Hopefully they won't be here long.

"Why are we out here, Charlie?"

"Only good spot to be alone."

What's her name…Jenifer.

There's the clink of bottles. Great. They're going to be here forever. This is incredibly unfair. As long as they're not going to _do_ anything…

They are. There's the rustle of clothing and the shadowy forms lay down in the grass.

SLAP!

Or not.

"What the fuck was that for?"

"I said no!"

"Come on, Jen…"

"No! Not like this. Get off me."

This is interesting.

"Charlie." She sounds frightened now. "Charlie, let me up."

"The fuck you come out for, then, huh?" And he's drunk-they were probably at a party earlier. "Can't do that to people."

"Charlie…"

"Fucking tease." He isn't moving. "The hell is wrong with you?"

She scrambles out from under him.

"Leave me alone."

He isn't prepared for her companion to stand and grab her and slam her into the tree. He grips the branch to keep his balance and hopes neither of them look up.

Jenifer groans and goes very still.

"Jen?" Charlie shakes her. "Jen. Come on. I'm sorry, baby, I just…Jen?"

He lets her go. She slumps to the ground. Unconscious? She certainly hit the tree hard enough-she's small, smaller than him these days, and Charlie's got a good hundred pounds on her.

Below, Charlie's starting to panic. He shakes her, calls her name, and finally lays her flat.

Her head is at a _very_ awkward angle.

Oh. Oh, dear. This could be very problematic for their star player. Accident or not-and he certainly won't be coming forward about that-they were out here, alone, at night…

Hm.

Charlie picks her up and drags her into the pond. Really? He's not going to own up? Well, well. This has…possibilities.

He can see Charlie adjusting the corpse-probably stuffing it under a log or something-and then he leaves, staggering back in the direction he came from and muttering to himself. Once he's sure he's not coming back, Jonathan comes down.

Things just got a little more interesting.

THE END


	31. Fright, Pt 6

AN: What? This is a golden opportunity, and he's not about to waste it. I considered having her outright strangled, by the way, but I don't think he's stupid enough to antagonize an intentional murderer. Accidental ones, on the other hand…

The Puppeteer Patient 120402-_I know! Barbarians.__ I can't say I'm sorry for her. That's called Karma. That's what you said about that man you killed yesterday. Most people deserve a healthy dose of it. I'm just helping. _

Christineoftheopera-_What's the fun in having secrets unless you get to lord them over other people? Or blackmail them? **There's no fun at all.** Funny, I thought the exact same thing._

Just-Me-and-My-Brain-**_Wish granted! _**_You're not a genie. **But I could be. A sexy genie. **Let me rephrase that-you're not allowed to be a genie. **You ruin everything.**_

* * *

_I know where she is._

There. Slightly vague, in case someone else reads it, but specific enough to make him nervous. It's not in his handwriting, either-it's in his best forgery of Granny's.

Perfect.

He slipped it in the locker during lunch-no one was there-and went to class trying very hard not to cackle.

There's been murmurs about the fate of Jenifer Watson, but so far nothing concrete. Her parents think she ran away. Understandably, the student body has conjured up all kinds of stories-pregnant, kidnapped, ran off with that dirty tramp that was here two weeks ago…

Oh, yes. There's been whispers, but no one has checked the pond.

He knows when Charlie gets the note, can see it in his face. Before lunch he was quiet-of course, Jen was his girl-but after lunch he's white and shaking and punchy, looking everyone in the face for a sign that they know.

Jonathan keeps his grin to himself.

* * *

_Are you sure she wasn't breathing when you put her in?_

Much more suspicious, he knows that, but he couldn't help himself. Besides, it's a reasonable fear-he hadn't checked, not really, to see if she was alive before he dragged her to the pond. She _could_ have drowned.

This time he sticks it in right before the locker rush at the end of the day and stays there, at his own locker a few rows away, waiting.

"Yeah, I'll see you in ten."

"See ya, Charlie!"

"So anyway, I bombed that math test, my old man's gonna be…" His fingers touch the paper and Jonathan can see him reading it, his forehead creasing.

"Charlie?"

"What's that?"

"Nothin'." He stuffs it into his pocket. "Sick joke, that's all. C'mon, we gotta go."

But his voice is shaking and he's no longer interested in his failed test.

* * *

He doesn't bother with a note this time-this time he gets a handful of plants from the pond and leaves them in the locker. He knows right when he gets them, too-there's a chorus of 'eeewww' and a wet _plop_ when they're dropped on the floor.

"The fuck is this?" The laughter dies immediately. "This isn't funny! Whoever keeps doing this, I'm gonna find you and you're gonna pay!"

"Chill, Charlie, it's just someone dicking around."

"It's not funny!"

Oh, but it is. Absolutely priceless.

He gathers his books and slips out with the others, not even caring when one of them knocks him over. It's for the best, really-he can't keep the grin off his face much longer.

* * *

_How can you sleep at night?_ the next note asks, and that's what finally triggers a breakdown.

Charlie lets the note fall and grabs his best friend-ex friend now, Jonathan's sure-and slams him against a locker.

"The fuck, man!"

"Charlie!"

"What is wrong with you!" He jerks him back and forth, banging his head against the locker door. "This isn't funny!"

Someone gets back with a teacher and Charlie is hauled off to detention.

Nobody goes near him now and Jonathan resists the urge to give him any more notes for a few weeks. But eventually he really can't help himself-that poor, murdered girl deserves justice-and that's when he gets a truly _wonderful_ idea.

* * *

_Why'd you kill me, Charlie?_

There. Just pathetic enough to sound like a teenage girl-he thinks, anyway. He's basing this off of the overly dramatic sobbing that they seem to do every time something doesn't go their way.

He can't be there this time, unfortunately-he's got a test and can't slip out for water-but it doesn't matter. When they get out, the halls are buzzing with the story that Charlie Hagan has left the building. Literally, just walked out to his car and left.

* * *

He's gone for three days before they find him, hanging from the tree by Guster's Pond. There's no note, no reason at all that he should have done this. Needless to say, the whole thing is dealt with as quickly and quietly as possible-suicide? That's a one-way ticket to Hell.

He should be sorry. At the very least, he should be thinking about being sorry. But really, he can't muster up the energy. He hadn't intended for this to happen, his hands are clean.

Besides, that's one less tormentor.

THE END


	32. Fright, Pt 7

AN: Subtitled, 'I Know What You Did On Friday'. And Arlen is a small town. Everyone knows where everyone lives. (Granny's just scary enough to keep people away, that's all.)

The Puppeteer Patient 120402-_Given what little resources I had, I was mostly pleased with the results. **He lies. He spent a week home sick afterwards. **Coincidence. **Bull shit, you felt guilty. **I hadn't planned for that, but it was Karmic. **Whatever. Wuss. **_

Christineoftheopera-_I dealt with mine. **Poisoned 'em all. **__They had it coming, it couldn't be helped. They sort of did. It was still kind of awkward, though, trying to make small talk while waiting for it to kick in. This is true. Especially when they started screaming mid-conversation._

Just-Me-and-My-Brain-_Unintentionally, though I suppose it was. It certainly lacked...everything, really. Sloppy work. I could do better in my sleep now. Remember mine was all messy, it could have been worse. True enough. I told you to be careful with the pipe._

* * *

They didn't mean to kill him. They only meant to spook him, how were they supposed to know he couldn't swim?

They'd picked him up despite his thrashing and shouting and thrown him in the water. It was just the pond, nothing was gonna happen.

Then he'd gone under and hadn't come back up and Sherry had finally made Bo go and get him. He was pale and unmoving and he didn't seem to be breathing.

Naturally, they panicked and got the hell out of there.

Now, lying in her pink bedroom (god, it's childish, but she can't bring herself to do anything about it), she starts to shiver. What if he drowned? She'd be responsible…and he'd be dead…she never wanted him to be dead. She didn't…doesn't…particularly like him, but she never wanted him to be dead. It's not his fault he's a weirdo.

She rolls over and tells herself that he's fine. He'll probably rat them out for cheating or something the first chance he gets, but he's probably at home now, reading some giant, boring book.

_But what if he drowned?_

Someone will find him soon if he did-will they know? Will they know who did it? It was an accident, they were just joking around, honest…

A figure moves outside and she sits up. Bo's early-she wasn't expecting him until later.

She cracks the window to hiss at him to go away, her parents are still here, and feels the breath catch in her throat.

It's not Bo at all, it's Jonathan Crane.

At least he's not dead…but why's he moving like that? Crap, did he get a concussion or something?

"Watcha lookin' at?"

Her kid sister Ann comes in.

"Nothin'. Get out, you didn't knock."

"Aw, c'mon, lemme see." She's elbowed out of the way. "Uh…weeds?"

She looks again. Jonathan's gone.

She shudders and pulls the drapes. She's not in the mood tonight, after all.

"Thought I saw an animal." she lies. "C'mon, let's go play Monopoly or something."

THE END


	33. Fright, Pt 8

AN: Sorry this took so long. _The Bird and the Worm_ was one of the Lost Documents, BUT I update every time I get a good idea, so no material was actually lost. *thanks Writerly Gods for small favours*.

Christineoftheopera-_She was never very bright. __She's lucky we didn't meet, I'd have taken her eyes out.__ So violent. __You could have drowned!__ I didn't. __She'd have deserved what she got._

The Puppeteer Patient 120402-_There's words. But none of them are very nice.__ Kitty, please stop talking, you sound like death. __Blame Batman.__ I do blame Batman, now be quiet before you damage your voice._

Just-Me-and-My-Brain-_They were dealt with. Carefully, of course, Arlen's residents usually being prone to shoot at things. Not even Gothamites shoot at things! They might live longer if they did. Very true._

* * *

Sherry sits on the porch in the wee hours of the morning, looking at the woods behind her house. A thick fog makes everything look dreamlike and she's near to dozing.

She's been here for half an hour or more, just thinking, and her arms are growing numb. She should go back in, but she just can't sleep.

She'll apologise to Jonathan on Monday. Slip a note in his locker or something. She'd apologise now, but his grandmother is a crazy lady and won't let anyone on their property. Really, it's no wonder that Jonathan's such a weirdo.

She leans back in the rocking chair and kinda wishes she'd let Bo in after all. She could do with the stress relief.

There's a movement out of the corner of her eye and her head snaps up. Farmer Andy's dog has been missing for months and there's been rumours of it being rabid.

It's not a dog. It's a person, but she can't see who it is because of the fog. She strains, comes up blank, and calls out, "Hello?"

They don't answer. They don't move, either, and Sherry gets up.

"Is someone there?"

She steps off the porch and _now_ she can recognize the skinny figure.

"Jonathan?" He doesn't do anything. "What are you doing out here?" She goes a little closer. "Look, I'm really sorry about earlier, we had no idea you couldn't...are you okay?"

He does not answer her. She wonders if maybe something's _wrong_, if he hit his head or something. They wanted to spook him, not kill him, and she really didn't like the whole thing to begin with.

"Jonathan?"

Now that she's closer, she can see that he really isn't very steady on his feet. Something's wrong, oh god...

"Jonathan." She starts towards him, intending to take him inside and ask her parents to take him to the hospital. "Come on, it's gonna be okay..."

The closer she gets to him, the more he backs up, until he's scarcely visible in the fog.

"Wait!"

But then he's gone, and when she darts towards where she last saw him, there's no sign of him.

Sherry shivers, the dew soaking into her slippers, and wonders if the guilt is making her see things. She should go back, see if he's still there...

There! By the woods, just at the edge.

"Jonathan," she says, starting towards him, "don't move, it's gonna be okay."

He looks in her direction and then just...vanishes. Like smoke.

_Or a ghost._

When she reaches the spot where he was standing, she finds nothing but a handful of wet straw.

THE END


	34. Fright, Pt 9

AN: Shorter, because being shot at is bad and he'd rather experience that.

MissTreason-_Haunting? Me? Why would you accuse me of such a childish indulgence?_

* * *

Bo Griggs isn't sleeping well, either. Tonight was just a shit night. Crane can go to hell for upsetting Sherry so bad she locked him out.

It was a joke, that was all. And that little prick had better be at school on Monday, not dead, so Sherry will quit freaking out.

And so he doesn't have a corpse on his hands. That's hard to explain.

He punches his pillow and scowls before dragging himself up and turning on the lamp. He's just reaching for his pocket knife and a piece of wood when he spots someone in the yard.

The fuck?

He gets up and goes downstairs with his shotgun-a gift from Dad for his sixteenth. Whoever's out there is in for a nasty surprise.

Where are they? He just saw someone, he knows he did...

"Hey!" His voice is swallowed in the thick fog. "If anyone's out here, you've got to the count of three to get the fuck away!"

He steps off the porch, straining to see...anything, really. There's nothing, though.

Huh.

He goes back inside, feeling a little more drowsy. He'll sleep now.

"Ah-!"

On his bed is a handful of wet straw.

THE END


	35. Flashes of White

AN: Weird Valentine's Day thing that in no way jives with anything else. It wouldn't leave me alone...

APOLOGIES about everything being stopped. First there was pain (Mother Nature is a bitch) and then, well...I did warn you that publication prep trumped everything. Be back soon. :)

MissTreason-_I scared them to death. He did not, that was later. With chemicals. True._

Christineoftheopera-_You need help._

FlowerPrincessoftheUniverse-_**Hey! I was there to begin with!**_

* * *

It's warm, right on the cusp of blistering heat, but he's never minded.

Besides, he can't afford to mind. Granny's having a bad day, one of the ones that he just has to avoid her because she won't remember it tomorrow. She's chased him out here, shouting at him for who-knows-what, and he knows if she catches him that he won't be in class tomorrow.

She's feeling well today, unfortunately, and although he's mostly sure he lost her in the field, he can't be sure. He should move, but he doesn't want to risk running into her.

"Jonathan!"

...

That way. Okay.

"Hey!" He doesn't know that voice. "This way!"

He turns and catches a glimpse of a girl in white. He doesn't know her, and he knows everyone whether he wants to or not. Visitor?

"Come on!"

Visitor from England. He must be dehydrated...

Granny calls for him again, sounding closer this time, and he scrambles up and gives chase to the girl in the white dress. Maybe he's dehydrated, maybe she works for a serial killer, but she's not actively trying to kill him, so he'll follow her.

She's fast, faster than he is, and it's only because he can see the white that he can keep up with her. He doesn't notice where she's leading him until she opens the door of the house across the way and disappears into the dark, dusty hall. He stops cold, common sense kicking in and saying, _hey, wasn't there a hitchhiking murderer on the news last week?_

Granny shouts for him and he immediately decides that maybe hitchhiking murderers aren't that bad.

He steps inside and the door closes behind him. No one's lived here in his memory, and the place has fallen apart. The realtor comes by once in a while to make sure it doesn't crumble, but there's webs and dead mice and all sorts of nice things in here. He's never been inside at all.

Where did she...she was just here!

"Hello?"

"Shh, she'll hear you!" The whisper sounds like it came from the room over and he goes that way, trying to avoid the webs and dead beetles.

Sure enough, outside he can hear Granny calling his name, promising that he'll wish he'd never been born when she catches him. Bit late for that, isn't it?

There's the girl, though, peering through heavy curtains in a darkened, empty room. He has no idea who she is, and he should probably be nervous, but...

Oh, dear god, she's _tiny_. He's still short-hopefully that promised growth spurt will happen soon-but he could probably pick her up even now. She's probably not a serial killer, anyway, and if she is, he should be able to fight her off.

"I think she's gone." she whispers. "I don't see her now."

"Sorry, we haven't met..."

She gives him a look that he suspects has been on his face many times. The look says, _are you always so stupid? _

"You're Jonathan and I'm Kitty." she says, as though it should be obvious. "There, we've met."

"Um..."

She's gone. Where did she go, she was just here!

"Kitty?"

There's a noise in the hall and he whirls, expecting Granny. But she doesn't call for him and when he goes out, there's no sign that anyone was there at all.

* * *

The ground is hard beneath him, but he can't stand. The crows, at least, have left off, but he doubts Granny will be back tonight. She was furious, furious enough that he thought she might drop over of a heart attack.

He hadn't been so lucky.

He's terrified to move, lest he anger the birds, but he's stiff and he needs to loosen his clothing or he'll never get it off. He tries and promptly begins to cough, trying frantically to cough quietly. The birds, for their part, pay him no mind.

"Let it out, they won't hurt you."

Hadn't he dreamed her? Or imagined her, or...something?

She's in white still, hair falling loosely around her shoulders.

He'd like to disabuse her of her notion, but he can't even breathe and, funnily enough, the crows are not resuming their attack.

"Kitty?"

She's suddenly on his other side, drawing something in the dust with her finger.

"Where is this?"

Hell is an accurate answer.

"Complicated. How did you-"

She flickers, he sees it happen, and then she's across the room, looking at the fallen cross that has long since begun to break.

Maybe she's a ghost, an ancestor or just someone who died on the property? Or something in that house is cursed and he touched it...that would be just his luck.

He coughs again and falls back, shivering and wondering what time it is. Not that late...or very early. He's not sure.

She's beside him again, drawing something else in the dust. When he looks, though, there's nothing there.

"Here she comes." she says suddenly. He opens his mouth to ask how she knows that, but she's gone.

Two minutes later, Granny opens the door. Turns out it's one in the morning.

* * *

That night in the chapel turned a dry cough to a full-blown chest cold. He's lying in bed now, waiting for Granny to go to bed for the night so he can sleep somewhat safely.

He risked committing a grave sin-asking Granny a question-and asked about the girl in white. Usually, Granny has no qualms about telling him horror stories, but this time she gave him a look that was almost concerned and sent him up to bed.

Granny opens his door a crack and his eyes squeeze shut. He feels her watching him for a minute before she pads down the hall, leaving the door open. Damn it, now he has to get up...

Once her door shuts, he gets up and goes to close his own door, reaching it just as a flash of white appears on the stairs.

"Granny?" he whispers, knowing it isn't her but having to check. She doesn't answer, but downstairs a door opens. Is someone here?

He pulls on a robe and makes his way downstairs. The door that opened was the sitting-room's door-it's ajar even now.

"Hello?"

Another flash of white, just leaving through the other door. He glances up-no sound from Granny-and gives chase, nearly knocking a vase over on the way. His head hurts...

"Kitty?"

There's no one here. He checks the whole downstairs, but there's no one here. Fever...making him see things...he needs to be back in bed.

He curls back up under his blankets and is just about to take his glasses off when he spots her by the door. He'll admit, she gives him a bad scare.

"You-!"

She holds a finger against her lips. There's a brief creak from Granny's room and her voice reaches his ears.

"Jonathan!"

"Yes, Granny?"

"What are you doing?"

"Going to sleep."

She says nothing more. He's tempted to call her in, just to see if he's going insane, but...he'd rather not share his midnight visitor.

He looks back at her and sees that she's let her hand fall.

"What are you doing here?"

She looks at him and crosses the room.

"You're sick."

Maybe she's here because he's on the brink of death or something.

"Just a cold."

"You sound terrible."

His vision's blurry and he can only just make her out, despite the fact that she's standing right beside him.

"I..."

"Shh." she soothes. "Close your eyes."

He takes his glasses off, which only makes her blurrier, but doesn't do as she says. What if she leaves the minute he's not looking?

"Jonathan..." She sounds exasperated with him. "Go to sleep."

"But-"

"Shh." She kneels beside him. "You need to sleep."

Maybe it's because he's tired, or maybe it's because he doesn't want to make her mad-what if she never comes back?-but whatever it is, he closes his eyes, albeit grudgingly.

He semi-wakes twice, once to find her still here and once to find Granny bending over him with the thermometer in hand.

A week later, when the fever has passed, he's not sure if he saw her at all.

* * *

He eventually decides she must be a guardian angel. Rotten luck on her part, getting stuck with him.

He's not lost, he just...took a few too many wrong turnings trying to escape Bo Griggs and his band of baboons.

Fantastic. Arlen's woods are scrappy and difficult to get lost in, yet he's managed it.

"This way!"

He'd like, he decides, to catch her. If he can touch her than she's real.

"Wait!"

For once she stops, dress blowing in a nonexistent breeze.

"What?"

"I'm not..." There's no good wording for this. "I'm not imagining you?"

"What kind of question is that?" She flickers out and reappears just out of reach. "No."

He remembers Scarecrow, when he was seven, and shudders.

"My imagination's said that before."

"Well, that can't be healthy."

Scarecrow killed a crow, caught it and beat it against the ground until the head was half off. He doesn't remember anything about that, only finding the remains and hearing the echoing cackles as Scarecrow explained everything.

That had been the first time he'd really been frightened of him.

"No." He could probably catch her now, so long as he's quick. "No, I don't think so."

"Come on, it's getting late."

He lunges for her-

-and grasps empty air.

"Kitty?"

"You'll have to be quicker than that." she says from behind him. He turns, sees nothing, and turns back to find her _thisclose_. "Come on."

He tries to grab her hand and she blinks out, appears several feet away.

"This way."

He doesn't try to catch her after that.

* * *

He hasn't seen her in months. Maybe she was a dream, maybe he made her up, he's not sure. He only knows that, as far as he knows, she's gone.

Until he gets new neighbors.

He's sitting on the porch-Granny's napping-when he spots the moving van. Huh. What poor souls thought Arlen was a good idea? Probably retirees or something.

Still, the small-towner in him is nosey and he stays where he is, pretending not to care that he has new neighbors. Granny won't be pleased.

The van has been there for some time, apparently-there's already a woman on the porch, directing the movers. Every so often he can hear her shouting, "Be careful with that or I'll have your guts for garters! Kitty! Come here!"

He's never heard that in real life before. At least the new neighbors will be entertaining.

Hang on.

Kitty?

He quickly abandons his pretense of not caring and adopts a new one, that of 'helpful neighbor'. It's what they do here-materialize at doorsteps with lemonade and judgmental smiles.

He borrows the lemonade pitcher and is still working on a good, 'welcome to Arlen, my apologies for my boorish fellow residents' when he spots her.

She looks the same as she always has-white dress, hair loose around her shoulders.

"Kitty...that's not practical."

"What if there's cute boys?"

"You're not going out tonight anyway."

"Mu-um!" She suddenly points at him. "Besides, what'd you say about good impressions, huh? There's a one over there and you haven't tried to feed him."

What.

Before her mother can stop her, she's run off and met him in the middle. He has no idea what to say to her.

"Hullo, Jonathan."

"H-hi, Kitty."

She grins broadly at him and before he can prepare himself, she's leaned up and kissed his cheek.

"Has your imagination ever done that?"

He's probably tomato-colored. Um...instant sunburn, happens all the time here.

"No?"

"Come on." she says. "This way."

THE END


	36. A Lapse in Memory

AN: _I maintain that she had dementia or something similar. She was never a kind woman, but things didn't get like this until much later. Shame I didn't know for sure-I would have just moved out and left her to her own devices._

Christineoftheopera-_Arkham's tolerable. So long as the clown is silent. Isn't that the truth?_

* * *

She didn't mean to.

Really, she didn't mean to.

These old bones can't stand for long periods anymore, all she meant to do was go back inside and sit down until the time was up. But she got a bit too comfortable in that old armchair and without really meaning to, she nodded off. And now the clock is chiming midnight when it should have been chiming nine.

She makes her way up and hobbles back outside, sick to her stomach. How will she explain this?

The crows are silent, unnervingly so, and she pushes the heavy doors open with no small feeling of trepidation.

Jonathan's huddled up against the wall near the door, hands and face hidden behind his knees. He doesn't react when she enters and for one horrid moment she wonders if the worst has happened.

"Jonathan." She doesn't mean to sound that harsh, either, but it works-his head shoots up and he scrambles to his feet.

"Granny, m'sorry, I promise not to-"

She holds up a hand and he silences.

"Let's go in."

He's oddly hesitant to move, and when he _does_ finally come forward, it's with the stiffness of someone going to the hangman. For Heaven's sake, she isn't going to...to...

Is he really so afraid of her? She wanted respect, of course she did-let a child run the house and things will go ill-but...not like this.

They reach the house as it starts to rain again. He's just starting for the stairs when she says his name.

"Jonathan." A little less harsh this time, but still he flinches back and looks at her, wide-eyed and pale. "Let's get you cleaned up."

"I-I'm fine, Granny, really-"

Anger stirs in her-ungrateful brat, she ought to just leave him to fend for himself-

No. Not tonight.

"That wasn't a choice."

For a moment she thinks he'll run from her, but he doesn't. He waits instead for her to make her way to the foot of the stairs and says, voice soft, "Would you like help up?"

Absolutely not. She is not some helpless old woman, thank you very much.

She swats him away, pretends not to notice the way he moves as though to avoid a strike. Humph. When has he grown so spineless?

She shoos him into her room and makes him sit on the settee-when did he grow so tall?-before getting a basin of water and a washcloth.

"Don't look so frightened, boy." she chides. "I'm not going to bite."

"Sorry."

Humph.

There's a scratch on his forehead that goes deep, deeper than she would have thought, and when she coaxes his hair back-he needs a haircut, it's getting out of control again-she finds his skin to be warm. Too warm? She doesn't know.

"Really, I can manage-"

"Sh."

He falls silent after that. She has no idea what to say to him. He brought this on himself,

_I didn't mean for it to go on this long_

and anymore every conversation they try to have ends...poorly.

The stillness is only broken by a sudden sneeze that startles them both.

"Go to bed." she says brisquely. "It's late."

He all but flees the room and she shakes her head. Overly dramatic child. Always has been.

She supposes he gets it from her side of the family. Karen was the same way.

She sighs and prepares for bed. It's been a long day.

THE END


End file.
